Mathias Turini was more than capable as an underboss, strategic and loyal in his own way, but he didn't have the connections to move higher. His bloodline wasn't pure enough,his network not extensive enough. He'd always be second, but I was how he'd become first. I could see it in his eyes every time he looked at me, that hungry, calculating expression. But little did he know it would never happen. I'd kill him while staring into his eyes before I'd become his wife. I'd already planned three different ways to do it if it came to that.
The curtains went down, the heavy fabric falling with a soft whoosh, and the crowd erupted with appreciative applause. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. "Ladies and gentlemen, we will be having a thirty-minute intermission. Please make yourself comfortable in the lobby, where wine and spirits are part of your evening." The emcee of the night stood on the stage as people stood and milled about, their voices rising in a pleasant murmur of conversation.
Heavy curtains closed around our box, pulled by unseen hands from outside, which only happened when there was business to take care of. The red velvet formed a cocoon, isolating us from the rest of the world.
"Niccolò." My father said, in his heavy Italian accent, and for a brief moment, my world spun. Everything stopped. My stomach sank to my feet. It was hard to breathe. I tugged on the high tulle collar of my dress, the fabric suddenly scratchy against my skin, but I didn't turn. I might have pushed the limits of propriety by taking control of the Carminatti family, but I knew when not to show my hand. Years of training kept my face neutral even as panic clawed at my insides.
My father stood, his movement stiff and formal, and held out his hand for my mother to take before turning to face the man behind us. "It is good to see you again." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father smile, then hug the man—an almost genuine gesture.
"Oh, come now, Emilia, don't be rude. You must greet our guest." My father extended his large, weathered, and scarredhand from decades of life, and I took it. Standing upright, smoothing my dress with my free hand, I turned to face the man whose intoxicating cologne filled the air. "Niccolò Venosa, I'm pleased to introduce you to my daughter, Emilia." This felt too informal; it smelled like a plot, and I didn't like it one bit. My father never introduced me to men from other families. Never.
"Pleasure," I said, demurely as I held out my hand, letting it hang limply in the air between us like I'd been taught. Niccolò took it gently and bowed, pressing his lips to the back of my hand. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me. His broad shoulders made the seams of his well-tailored jacket pull slightly before he stood up to his full height, towering over me despite my heels. This man was a monster, in more ways than one. I could feel the power radiating off him like heat.
"The pleasure is all mine." He crooned sweetly, his voice deep and rich, as he smiled and our eyes locked. His eyes were black, bottomless, impossible to read. I felt like I was falling into them.
"Well, you two, we’re going to go see where our wine is." My father patted this man on the back as he and my mother exited the box, leaving behind a trail of my mother's expensive perfume, and for the first time in my life, I was left alone with a man. Not just any man, but a man of a rival family. A man who had the power to end me with a flick of his wrist. A man who'd been there this morning and seen me leaving a brutal murder scene. The realization hit me like a physical blow.
"Please, sit." He motioned to the chair next to him, his voice carrying an edge of command despite the polite words. Kicking the train of my dress out of the way, the fabric heavy and cumbersome, I tucked my worn shoes beneath the hem. I wasn't sure I could polish them with a marker anymore without it being obvious. The leather was cracking at the toes; the heels scuffed beyond repair. I needed a new pair soon. But kept a smile pasted on my face just as I was taught in etiquette classes, finishingschool, and being raised in a 'proper' society gave me the grace to pretend nothing was wrong. I'd perfected the art of the mask.
"Are you enjoying the evening, Emilia?" His voice was casual and conversational, like we were old friends catching up.
"It's Ms. Carminatti, and it's a lovely evening. Listening to the symphony is one of my favorite things." I smiled modestly at the man, my hands folded in my lap like a proper lady.
There were no visible scars or tattoos, but his black eyes bored into me like they could see the deepest recesses of my soul. Like he knew every secret I'd ever kept. His frame was twice that of my father’s, solid muscle beneath the expensive suit, and while I was possibly in imminent danger, I felt safe in his presence. The contradiction made no sense. As for the other weapon on his person, the one the women gossiped about endlessly, I'd be inclined to believe that gossip. Everything about him screamed power.
He leaned closer to me, and I stayed perfectly still, refusing to yield even as his scent surrounded me. "I would like to speak with the doña." His whispered words sent a chill through my veins, and I could feel my forced smile wobble just a bit. The muscle at the corner of my mouth twitched before I could hold it back.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. If you want to talk to my don, you will have to go out to the lobby to find him," I said flatly, staring straight ahead at the red curtains around us. The fabric seemed to pulse in my peripheral vision.
"Now come, Emilia. Your father might not have known who's pulling the strings in his organization, but I do." He shifted in his seat and turned to face me, his knee brushing against my dress. My heart raced. Could he see that beneath the neckline of my dress? My pulse was visible, I was sure of it, betraying me. My toe involuntarily tapped beneath the hem of my dress, and I tried to control my breathing so I wouldn't give him a glimpsethat I was in panic mode. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don't let him see you break.
"Ms. Carminatti. It is entirely inappropriate for you to be calling me by my first name." I feigned horror, letting my voice rise slightly with indignation, but in all truth, I liked hearing him use my name. The way it rolled off his tongue was soft and possessive. I couldn't look at him, but his powerful hand under my chin gave me no choice but to turn and look at him. His skin was warm, his grip firm but not painful.
"It would if I were a stranger, but I'm not." His thumb brushed my jaw, a casual touch that felt anything but casual.
"Well, I hate to argue that fact, but you are. I've never seen you before in my life." I tried to keep my voice light and airy like I was supposed to, like I was discussing the weather or the evening's program. He reached over and placed his hand under my chin, his touch light and firm as he turned my head toward him, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"But I've seen you, Emilia. This morning, actually." He moved his hand from my chin and traced the tips of his fingers over my shoulder and down my arm, following the line of my sleeve, brushing the bandage concealed under the sleeve of my dress. The touch was feather-light, but I felt it like a brand. "Before this beautiful evening started, I made a deal with your father for your hand, in exchange for keeping silent about you. He wasn't pleased when he found out you were pulling the strings in his organization." Each word was carefully enunciated, deliberate.
Slowly, he moved his hand from my arm to my stomach, where she slid it up, over my breasts, to my neck. The path his hand took left heat in its wake. My breath hitched in my throat, and an ache between my legs started involuntarily. My body was betraying me, responding to him despite my mind screaming danger.
With gentle pressure, he closed his hand around my throat as he leaned closer to me, his breath warm against my cheek. "You've brought the Carminatti name shame, little Emi, which delivered you and your father into my lap." His voice was low, menacing, and I could feel the anger bubbling up from my toes. The diminutive nickname should have insulted me, but instead it felt intimate. Possessive. "Oh, I touched a nerve. Your pulse is racing, but you look unfazed by this news. You were taught well. A skill I will use to my advantage in our marriage." The word 'marriage' hung in the air between us like a death sentence.
I tried to move my head away from him, but it only made him tighten his grip on my neck. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who was in control. His eyes danced, amusement and something darker playing across his features, and I wanted to kill him. "Let go of me," I said through gritted teeth, putting every ounce of venom I could muster into the words. He did as I demanded, releasing me so suddenly I almost fell forward.
He leaned in close to my ear, his lips nearly brushing it. "That will be the only time I don't leave my mark on you, my bride. If you ever cross me, I will spill your blood where you stand." The threat was delivered in the same tone he might use to compliment the weather. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small, ancient-looking velvet box. Then he took my hand in his, his fingers enveloping mine, and slid something onto my finger. A diamond, as large as Texas, now adorned my hand. The weight of it was shocking, pulling my hand downward. The stone caught the dim light and cast rainbows across the red walls.
"And what if I say no?" straightening my back, tilting my head up so I could more or less look down my nose at him, channeling every ounce of aristocratic disdain I've ever seen my mother display. If he thinks I'm scared, he'll have another thingcoming, even though I'm terrified and literally shaking in my shoes. My knees were knocking together beneath my dress.
"Your father will no doubt be killed. The heads of the Cosa Nostra can't let him live. He's a liability if he can't control his family, and a daughter no less." There wasn't any hesitation in his words, no wavering or doubt. Just a cold, hard fact. The velvet curtains and the red upholstered walls were closing in around me. The box felt smaller with each passing second. The high neck of my dress was restrictive, tightening like a noose around my neck, cutting off my air.
"You seem to think I'm concerned about my father remaining above ground." My voice wavered slightly, betraying me again. Fuck now he's going to know he got to me. I thought to myself, cursing my weakness.
"What will happen to your sisters if he dies? I hate to say it, Emilia, but you’ll also be killed. You've gone behind all our backs and chosen to ignore the rules dictated in this life, so you won't even be there to protect them." Again, he trailed his finger over my shoulder and down my arm to the bandage, knowing exactly where it was, like he'd been the one to place it there.
He wrapped his hand around it and gripped it tightly. Pain exploded up my arm. A slight whimper escaped my throat, and I closed my eyes, hating myself for the show of weakness. This was over; my life was over. Everything I'd built, everything I'd fought for, was gone in an instant.
In less than twenty minutes, I'd been exposed and now belonged to Niccolò Venosa. My future had been decided without my input or consent. The door opened, and light shone into the darkened box from the hallway, bright and intrusive, looking from the gaudy ring. I watched my father and mother walk into the box. They looked different somehow, smaller. My father looked from Niccolò to me, his eyes moving between uswith calculation, and I saw something I'd never seen before when he looked at me. Something that made my blood run cold.
